Walking Like a Real Man
by The Elfmaniac
Summary: [ Jersey Boys, deathfic, oneshot ] His foot slipped on the way to collect his daughter's things. [ rating for language and implied drug use ]


**Title: **Walking Like a Real Man

**Author:** The Elfmaniac (Erin)

**Rating:** T, for implied drugs and language

**Pairings:** none.

**Summary:** His foot slipped on the way to collect his daughter's things.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters, nor do I own the musical.

**Special Thanks:**  
For Elle. For her support and love. Even if she hasn't seen Jersey Boys, she always seems to complete the lyrics to 'What a Night'.  
And for AC.

* * *

He was completely frozen by the phone call, his senses numbed. The ground tilted, his head went against the wall.  
Francis didn't cry. His heart felt like it was being split in two, clear down the middle.  
But he still didn't cry.

"I'll...I'll uh, be sure to be there," he said, surprised at the lack of emotion in his own voice. What Frankie really wanted to do, however, was to scream and cry about how this wasn't fair. He wanted to run out into the rain (how fitting that it was raining, he thought, brain sneering at him), to be drenched. Something that he could _feel_, rather than the plastic crunching under his knuckles. "Thank you. I'm...I'm sorry, too."

His shoes were too damn clean. Frankie realized that as he was forced to look downwards by his posture, seeing the reflection of his face in the polished surface. One was not supposed to see any part of your body in your clothing items.

He had driven himself to the hospital, which was a feat, given how he had broken down in the few minutes after the call. Valli had struggled, of course, with keeping his hands steady enough to drive. He nearly swerved clear off the road at least twice, sobs wracking his small body, one hand leaving the steering wheel to wipe at his bloodshot eyes.  
He was now however, still in the Cadillac, forehead pressed against the leather of the wheel, eyes closed.

Frankie could not deal with something like this.  
Yes, his daughter had been twenty-two, her own woman, but that did not mean that he couldn't worry. Hell, he worried. He knew he had been a fucking bad father, that he should've been there more than one night out of the year. But what Francine failed to understand was his need to provide for his family. That meant touring, which meant raking in the cash away from home. That meant sleeping around, because there was still that empty void from his divorce.

He collected himself, stepping out into the chilly night air, shoes making soft noises against the asphalt as he walked to his doom. Valli was there to nod, say, 'yes, this is my daughter', and to gather things that were hers. Her clothes, her jewelry, her needles...  
"Shoulda protected her," he mumbled to no one in particular, legs moving forward automatically, to the hospital.  
Hospitals were always so fucking big and scary. He hated them. Especially when his little girl was being frozen in the morgue.

His knees were beginning to feel weak by the time he went through the door, hand automatically moving to his head, ruffling up the curly, black locks there. He never seemed to lose that. Frankie had noticed a grey hair amidst the black ones this morning, however, marking his decline into being old.  
"Morgue," he muttered, noticing he had made his way to the front desk, a corner digging painfully into his stomach.  
"Down the hall. Do I know you?" asked the nurse, eyes glittering behind those cat-eye glasses.  
"No."

He usually would've said where he was from. Today did not seem appropriate, however.  
"Thank you, ma'am," Francis said, in the most polite tones he could.  
He wondered, for the sake of wondering, if Mary knew.

Each step was becoming harder and harder, his feet feeling like lead weights attached to his legs. It would be nice to sit down for a moment, or to slouch, rather than be so upright when he was striding down the hallway. He allowed his back to curve a bit, shoulders slouching, eyes cast to the linoleum as he walked.

His foot slipped (or, so he would tell anyone who listened), and he found himself flat upon the ground, shaking with the onset of tears. Frankie couldn't walk, he couldn't, and he couldn't be told that this child was dead. He couldn't be told that some motherfucker at a party did it, that she had died of an overdose. It was too much.  
He was drowning in his sorrows on the floor, turning over to his back, looking up at the glaring lights.

His chest heaved.

_Walk like a man_, his father would have told him.  
But his dad didn't lose a kid. His dad wasn't as inattentive as Valli would have liked to believe.

"Sir..."  
Someone was standing over him, eclipsing the buzzing, bright (too fucking bright) lights.  
"Sir, are you okay?"

Francis considered his next statement, wiping away the tears with the back of his hands, sniffing.  
"My foot just...slipped."

* * *

**Read and Review.**


End file.
